


He Should Wear Armor

by Emachinescat



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: AU Episode Tag, Bromance, Episode: s03e05 The Crystal Cave, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-01
Updated: 2011-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-13 16:14:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1232950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emachinescat/pseuds/Emachinescat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU tag to 'The Crystal Cave'. While running from bandits, Merlin is fatally wounded by an arrow. An old man appears with a solution, but will Arthur turn to magic to heal his dying friend? How far will he go to save Merlin? "Merlin was dying..." 3x05</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Should Wear Armor

**Author's Note:**

> Don't own, for entertainment purposes only. 
> 
> Enjoy. :)

Merlin followed after Arthur, lungs burning and feet pounding against the forest floor as the prince and master ran from the bandits that had been chasing them through Cenred's kingdom. Despite the fact that Arthur was wearing full armor – except for a helmet – and was weighed down by it, he was in the lead. Merlin was wearing his normal attire, relatively thin and worn breeches, shirt, jacket, neckerchief, and boots, which was fine with him. He  _hated_ wearing armor, the few times that he had donned it; despite the fact that it did keep a person safer, it weighed the slight young warlock down considerably. Still, he had to wonder how Arthur was running ahead of him, because Merlin knew that if  _he_  had been sporting that chainmail and armor, he would be lagging behind, burning up and even more out of breath than he was now.

He decided that he needed to catch up with Arthur. Merlin hated feeling helpless – because he was anything but – but right now, they were so vastly outnumbered that to take out all of these men after them, Merlin would have to do quite a spectacular bit of magic that would certainly be noticed by Arthur to ward them all off. They needed to find a place to duck out of sight – yet again – this time, a place that the bandits would not find them right after Arthur said, "Told you we could outrun them."

Just as Merlin put on a burst of speed, a sharp pain pierced his upper back and he stumbled, falling flat on his face in the dirt. He wasn't sure what had happened but he realized that something was very wrong when he attempted to push himself up and agonizing pain shot through his body and arms. He let out a strangled cry as he collapsed back down on the earth, his vision going foggy. What had happened to him?

He vaguely thought he heard someone saying his name, but he couldn't imagine who it would be. The voice sounding similar to Arthur's, but the prince never sounded that worried about  _anyone._ Curious as to who had called his name and whose hand was gripping his uninjured shoulder tightly, Merlin fought the darkness and struggled vainly to stay conscious, knowing the bliss of unconsciousness was only minutes away.

* * *

Arthur had been running for his life – something he hated to do, but in this situation, running from the enormous amount of bandits was the only way to stay alive; he wondered distantly why he had thought it such a good idea to go on a scouting trip with no knights and only Merlin.  _Merlin._  Arthur fought the urge to look back at his servant, to make sure that he was alright, but he could hear the clumsy idiot crashing along noisily behind him.

Arthur thought his heart was going to stop when Merlin's uneven, stumbling rhythm of footsteps broke and there was a yell of pain. Almost afraid to turn around and see what had happened to his servant, Arthur forced himself to do just that. A rage that he didn't even know was within his emotional capacity overtook him when his eyes landed on the sprawled out form of his servant, an arrow sticking out of his back and the brown jacket around the wound already beginning to turn maroon.

Merlin had been shot.

"Merlin!" he yelled, glaring ferociously at the still advancing bandits, dropping to his knees beside the servant who was still alive, struggling to get up but falling back down almost instantly, a cry of pain escaping from his trembling lips. Grasping Merlin's uninjured shoulder tightly, Arthur heard Merlin mumble, "S-sorry, comin' Ar..tur, 'm 'kay." The fact that Merlin was slurring his words badly wasn't a good sign, but Arthur hoped it was merely shock.

"Come on, Merlin," the prince ordered, trying to hide the fear in his voice as he hoisted Merlin up, half-dragging him along as he ran, searching desperately for a place to hide from the bandits. Luckily, there was a leafy alcove between two wooded hills not too far away, and Arthur leapt into the shelter, dragging the injured Merlin along with him as gently as he could. He pulled Merlin in deeper, walking backwards slowly and quietly as the group of bandits ran by, yelling and searching, but completely missing, their targets. Breathing a sigh of relief, Arthur saw that he had discovered a small clearing in the forest, complete with a little stream that ran from the shelter of the trees on one side, across the clearing, and into the trees on the opposite side.

He brought a semi-conscious Merlin into the clearing and laid him down on his stomach, wincing slightly as the dark-haired man groaned in pain. Arthur clenched his teeth when he saw, for the first time, how deeply embedded in Merlin's flesh the arrow was. It had hit him in his upper back, near his shoulder blade on the left side, just above his heart. A cold sensation trickled down Arthur's back as he realized what a close call this had been. Arthur wasn't a physician, but even he could tell that if the arrow had pierced just an inch lower, Merlin would be dead already.

He forced himself not to think about what could have been. "Merlin?" he murmured softly, hearing a soft whimper as a reply. "Merlin?" he asked again, louder.

Merlin shifted his head and rasped, "Wha' happened?" His blue eyes were a bit brighter than usual and his face was pale. Blood was pooling around the wound and Arthur couldn't help the fleeting thought that if Merlin had been wearing armor, the injury would not have been nearly as bad.

He made sure that his voice was normal, the usual joking and slightly annoyed tone that he used when talking to Merlin in place. "You were being a clumsy idiot, as usual,  _Mer_ lin, and you got shot with an arrow."

Merlin chuckled softly but it sounded more like a sob. "Well," he grinned (or at least attempted to), "was that all? I thought it was something terrible."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Stop trying to be funny, Merlin, it doesn't suit you." He studied the arrow jutting out of Merlin's back and came to a decision. "We have to get it out of you, Merlin, and it's already in there so deeply that it would be easier to push it the rest of the way through."

Merlin groaned. "If you gotta," he mumbled blearily.

Arthur nodded grimly. "Sorry, Merlin. I've got to."

* * *

Merlin didn't think he had ever hurt this much before. His entire body ached fiercely, but the worst by far was his left arm and shoulder, along with the throbbing of the upper left side of his back. He was pretty sure Arthur had told him that he had been shot with an arrow, but he was so dazed at the moment that he could have imagined it. One thing that his aching head was  _not_  conjuring, however, was the pain.

He felt himself fading, his mind fogging up as he longed to close his eyes and sleep, but he wasn't sure that he'd wake up again if he sunk into unconsciousness, so he forced himself to stay awake as long as he could. He had to survive this, had to get through the pain, because if he succumbed to it, if he went to sleep and never woke up again, then who would protect Arthur?

He had heard the worry in his master's voice when Arthur had yelled his name after he'd first fallen, and again, as the prince had tried to calmly tell Merlin that he was going to have to shove the arrow the rest of the way through Merlin's pain plagued body in order to get it out, but he didn't quite understand it. Arthur didn't worry about Merlin; it just wasn't like him. Merlin knew that they were friends – even if Arthur would rather fight a band of Questing Beasts than admit it – but the amount of concern – and guilt? – in Arthur's voice shocked the warlock.

He heard Arthur start to speak again, his voice quiet and measured, soothing. "Alright, Merlin, I'm going to need you to bite down on this…" Merlin frowned and even that tiny facial movement caused him pain. He blinked, trying to shoo away the fog that was once again obscuring his vision and saw that Arthur was holding a strip of his shirt that he had cut off the hem, folded over on itself.

Merlin laughed softly and groaned when the wound in his back protested. "Why woul' I wanna do tha'?" he muttered sleepily.

Arthur hesitated for a few seconds as if he were reluctant to answer Merlin's question . Suddenly Merlin wasn't entirely sure if he wanted to know the answer, either. Finally, Arthur answered softly, "Because this is going to hurt like hell."

Merlin's heart automatically responded to the prince's prediction, thumping erratically against Merlin's rib cage as if trying to get away. Merlin just nodded ever so slightly and opened his mouth, allowing Arthur to slip the fabric between his teeth. Merlin clamped down on the material hard, anticipating what was coming next.

When the earth-rattling pain tore through his very being as the arrow was slowly, agonizingly, forced through his resisting body and the tip of the head sliced through his flesh and appeared out of his chest in a pool of blood, he luckily did not have to endure the torture for long. He convulsed a few times and could feel Arthur's hands on his unhurt shoulder and lower side, trying to hold him down, and then he sank into oblivion, his eyes rolling back into his head as he lost consciousness.

* * *

An hour or so later, Arthur had managed to stem the bleeding for the most part but Merlin was getting feverish and it was obvious that the arrow had caused some internal injuries. After the servant had passed out, Arthur had been relieved because the convulsions and whimpers of pain coming from his hurting servant had almost been too much for Arthur. He had let Merlin sleep while he pulled the shaft out and cleaned and bandaged the wound the best he could, but after many minutes passed and Merlin showed no signs of waking, Arthur had attempted to rouse him several times, and each with the same frustrating and worrying result: nothing.

Merlin's breathing had become ragged and pained, his face changing from deathly pale to a ghastly shade of green. The flesh around the wound was discolored and swollen and despite the heat emanating from the fire Arthur had lit when he deemed them completely safe from the bandits, Merlin was shivering with cold. Arthur didn't know a lot about the work of a physician, but he didn't have to be one to know what was happening: the arrow had caused severe damage and was now more than likely infected. In short? Merlin was dying.

Merlin and dying – two words he  _never_  wanted to hear in the same sentence, whether it be in his head or out loud. The thought of his clumsy, disrespectful, funny, and all-too-cheerful servant  _dying_ was just too terrible to bear.  _Merlin_  couldn't die.

Arthur had never really thought about what would happen if Merlin were killed, mostly because the idea was so foreign to him that it had never crossed his mind. Sure, his loyal-to-a-fault servant had had a few brushes with death – the poisoned chalice, for example – but he had always made it out of trouble relatively unscathed. Arthur supposed that he had begun to take Merlin for granted, which was something easy to do when you were a prince and had grown up with servant after servant. Merlin, however, was the first servant that Arthur actually considered a  _friend_ , and not just any friend, his  _best friend._

Not that he would admit it to anyone, though. Heavens, no.

But still, despite Merlin's saucy comments, obnoxious pessimism, constant babbling, and inherent happiness that grated Arthur's nerves, he and Merlin were friends. He had still taken the young man for granted, though, in assuming that he would always be there. Quite frankly, Arthur hadn't really ever wanted to think about what it would be like if Merlin wasn't by his side.

The first time he had been faced with the prospect of Merlin no longer being his servant was when Merlin's home village, Ealdor, had been attacked by raiders and his mother, Hunith, had travelled to Camelot to appeal to Arthur's father for help. Regrettably, Uther had apologetically refused – a diplomatic decision that Arthur respected but didn't like – and Merlin had approached Arthur to tell him that he was going back to Ealdor with his mother.

Arthur had assumed that as soon as everything was taken care of at home that Merlin would come right back to Camelot and take back his place as Arthur's servant. It hadn't even crossed his mind that Merlin might have other plans, that the servant might have wanted to stay at home to take care of his mother. When Merlin had informed him that he wasn't planning on coming back, Arthur had felt more distraught than he would have liked because the truth was, if Merlin left, Arthur would truly miss him. Arthur hadn't been quite ready to say goodbye and he wasn't about to let Merlin face the dangers of the raiders on his own, thus his decision to join Merlin, Hunith, Gwen, and Morgana had been spurred.

He had been relieved when everything had worked out in Ealdor and Merlin had decided that he would indeed return to Camelot. This had been the year that they had first met, the year Merlin had become Arthur's servant. The thought of losing his friend, even back then, was something unappealing to Arthur, but now, two years later, the thought of losing him to  _death_  was unthinkable. Arthur felt tears prick the corners of his eyes and he angrily brushed them away. He was a  _prince_ , for heaven's sake! He was  _not_ supposed to feel like this.

But why not? Another surge of anger rose in him as he watched Merlin's chest rise and fall with great effort, irregularly and painfully. His friend was dying, struggling to do something as simple and natural as breathing. Wasn't everyone, even a prince, entitled to mourn their friends when they died? Arthur scoffed as he remembered his father's callous reaction to Merlin's near death when the idiot had so selflessly drunk the poison in Arthur's place two years ago at the banquet marking the treaty between Mercia and Camelot. Sure, royalty was allowed to mourn for their friends – as long as they were noble friends and not not servants whose lives were "worth less" than yours.

Pushing the disturbing thoughts aside, Arthur used two sticks he had found to pull a steaming, leafy bundle – a poultice of sorts – that he had put together to try and help Merlin, out of the fire, touching it lightly to make sure it wasn't too hot. Merlin was lying on his side and Arthur gently touched the bundle to Merlin's sweaty, death-colored forehead and dabbed at the clammy skin, trying to give him a little comfort while in actuality having no idea if his means of helping was right or not.

When Merlin didn't react at all to the steaming poultice placed on his head, Arthur knew that things were  _very_  bad. Merlin was in such a deep state of unconsciousness that  _nothing_  seemed to be able to wake him, and that scared Arthur more than anything. The prince almost yearned for the cries of pain because as difficult as they were to hear, they at least told Arthur that Merlin was alive and not currently hovering on the brink of death. Now, Arthur really had no idea.

After pressing the leaves against Merlin's forehead for a few minutes without any sign or reaction from the young man, Arthur put the bundle aside and gently rolled the boy over, peeling back the makeshift bandages on Merlin's bare back and inspecting the wound once more. It looked terrible. It was still bleeding some, and the skin was blackening around the puncture wound on both sides, his chest and back. Blood was seeping from the hole in his friend's flesh and onto Arthur's trembling hands but the prince barely noticed as he bandaged Merlin up again with.

Seeing that Merlin's bare chest and back was covered in chill bumps as he shivered from fever, Arthur took Merlin's shirt and jacket and covered the boy with them. When the shivering and chattering of teeth didn't lessen, Arthur didn't waste a second thought as he pulled off his own jacket and covered Merlin with it as well, knowing that his was much better material and would keep Merlin warm.

"Come on, you idiot," he murmured, his voice shaking ever so slightly. " _Mer_ lin. Come on. I need you to get better, okay? I mean, there are a lot of idiotic, smart-mouthed servants in the world, so if you die…" Arthur's voice choked off and he tried a different method. "Merlin, I'll give you another chance, okay? You need to stop being so damn stubborn and WAKE UP!" Arthur emphasized the last two words, gently shaking Merlin's unhurt shoulder, but the servant didn't even twitch.

The despair descended upon Arthur then like a ravaged wolf, trying to devour every part of him. There was nothing he could do. Merlin was  _dying._

Arthur knew that he couldn't risk moving Merlin; that was how badly his friend was injured. He was barely clinging onto life as it was, and if Arthur tried to cart him off somewhere, no matter how gentle he was about it, it would more than likely end in disaster – Merlin's death. As it was, Arthur didn't even think that there was much even Gaius could do for Merlin now. He was dying.

Arthur had seen people get shot with arrows plenty of times before. Sometimes the wound was fatal, other times – very rarely – it was not. The main difference between then and now was that in the other instances, the people who were shot were soldiers and knights. It was still incredibly difficult to see another human being going through pain, but at least knights and soldiers  _trained_  for it. They  _knew_ the risks they were taking in battle. They  _had_  protection and they  _had_ armor. Merlin?

He had nothing. He had no training, no experience, no obligation, and no armor. He wasn't a knight, he was a servant, and Arthur had once again taken him for granted, dragging him along wherever he decided to go without any thought to the repercussions if Merlin got hurt. He had known that there was a chance they would get involved in a pretty nasty fight on this trip.  _Why_ hadn't he told Merlin to at least wear armor? The wound probably wouldn't have been as deadly if Merlin had had some form of protection. But he hadn't. He had had  _nothing._

Choking back some tears, Arthur protested mentally to the situation. Merlin simply couldn't die. He was Merlin, his cheeky, fun-loving, idiotic, friendly servant. He was Merlin, his funny, stupid, quick to give advice, and insanely loyal  _friend._  Arthur hadn't thought about Merlin dying before because the idea was completely unfathomable. It just  _couldn't_ happen. It was against everything Arthur knew. Someone as idiotic, as naïve and innocent of Merlin dying because of a bandit's arrow lodged in his back?

No. Merlin dying because Arthur hadn't thought enough to at least  _ask_  the loyal servant if he wanted to tag along, or to tell said servant that he needed to wear some chainmail at least. Without suggesting that Merlin stay in front of him so that someone who did have armor covering their body could protect him. The bandit may have been the one to release the arrow, but Arthur could no longer deny it – he felt that it was  _his own_  fault that Merlin was dying. He should have had armor. He should have had a choice.

This never should have happened.

* * *

A few minutes after, Arthur was kneeling at the small stream, attempting to wash Merlin's blood off of his hands. He knew that the inevitable would happen any time now; Merlin's breathing had slowed almost to the point where he was not breathing at all and the wound was only getting worse. Arthur tried to keep his composure as he crouched there beside the lazily moving water, but as he looked down at the small stream turning red where his hands were immersed, he found he could no longer hold back his tears and he began to sob.

He cried…and felt. Instead of trying to ignore or reason away the pain, he was, for the first time, immersing himself in the emotions instead of trying to detach himself from them. He concentrated on feeling—truly wallowing in the pure pool of emotions—every single drop of anger, hate, terror, guilt, depression just the way it was meant to be felt. With passion, without thought or reason. Simply illogical, animal instinct taking over. For the first time in his life, Arthur Pendragon truly knew what it felt like to be driven to his knees, to rock bottom, by a barrage of emotions – and all for his servant. No, he corrected himself, all for his friend.

He was so wrapped up in his grief that when the voice spoke out, Arthur nearly jumped out of his skin. As it was, he leapt to his feet and reached for his sword before inwardly kicking himself for leaving it back where Merlin was lying a few yards away.

Before him stood an old man with short white hair and beard. He was tall, a bit taller than Arthur, actually, and he was dressed in long robes that swept across the forest floor. Arthur decided that if it came down to it, he could take the old man easily, with or without a weapon. Staring at the intruder on his emotional display suspiciously, he wondered what the old man had in mind when he asked, "Why are you so sad?"

Wiping the tears from his face but not ashamed that he had cried – that he had grieved properly – for his friend, Arthur straightened up and answered, "My friend…" his voice caught and he chided himself for appearing so weak, "… he's dying, and there's nothing I can do for him…"

The elderly man smiled reassuringly and took a few steps forward, his kind eyes locking on Merlin's prone form, making Arthur instantly defensive, no matter how harmless the old man seemed to be. "Who are you?" Arthur demanded.

"My name is Taliesin," was the answer, "and I can save your friend."

Arthur felt a small ray of hope ignite inside him but he ignored it as his brow furrowed. He studied the man. "It's impossible. I told you – Merlin is  _dying_. There's nothing anyone can do for him."

Taliesin shook his head slowly. "Do not lose hope, young Pendragon. It is not yet Emrys's time to die. He still has great things ahead of him. This meeting – our meeting – has been foretold for centuries. The reason I am here, now, is so that I can restore Emrys."

"His name's Merlin," Arthur corrected stonily, wondering why on earth this strange man was calling his servant "Emrys."

The man simply dipped his head and agreed, "Merlin." He moved over to Merlin, his robes swishing across the leaves, dirt, and grass as he walked to the unconscious, barely breathing young man. Arthur hurried to join them, conflicted between hope and despair.

"I told you, he was shot with an arrow, the wound is infected, and it must have done some sort of internal damage… there is no hope."

"And yet there it is, shining in your eyes, even if you are too afraid to acknowledge it," Taliesin countered.

Arthur bristled. "I am  _not_  afraid of  _anything._ " He glanced mournfully at his servant.

"Except losing your friend, I see." Taliesin paused. "Your father does not condone the use of magic, am I correct, Arthur Pendragon?"

Arthur felt something begin to tingle inside of him at the mention of magic. That was it! This man had magic, that was how he was going to cure Merlin! He had seen magic save Gwen's father of an illness that had no cure; surely, it could heal Merlin as well. But as Taliesin had said, Arthur's father did  _not_  condone the use of magic. Arthur had been taught all of his life that magic was evil and that it corrupted. He knew that his father would undoubtedly behead the man then and there for simply mentioning magic. But if there was even the slightest chance that Taliesin could help Merlin…

"Do it," Arthur ordered, his voice hard and determined.

A soft, knowing smile made its way onto the sorcerer's lips. "As you wish, your highness." He turned to Merlin, placed a wrinkled hand on the dying boy's forehead, and muttered a word of magic, a word that caused a stir in the air and a shiver – not of fear, but of wonder – to travel down Arthur's spine. Almost instantly, Merlin shifted, although his eyes didn't open.

"Is he better?" Arthur demanded, gazing intently at his friend's face.

Taliesin dipped his head in acknowledgement. "He will wake shortly." He paused. "I have also given him some visions of great importance. He was meant to see them today, but as he was injured, something we did not foresee in our prophecies, my plan did not go exactly as I thought it would. So I implanted what he needs to know in his mind. You must tell him, when he wakes, that the future is not set in stone and that he has been given this knowledge for a reason. If you do not, he may go mad from what he will see."

Arthur was enraged that the sorcerer had implanted something in his servant's mind that could be potentially dangerous to him. "Take them away!" he ordered. "What did you show him?"

"That is for Emrys –"

"Merlin," Arthur fumed.

" _Merlin_  alone to know. But you must tell him what I said. This moment has been foretold for years. He  _had_ to see this."

"Why him?" Arthur demanded angrily. "What are you talking about?"

But Taliesin was gone. Grumbling to himself, Arthur decided he would tell Merlin what the strange old man had requested because he did not want whatever – if anything – Taliesin had planted in his mind to harm Merlin's psyche in the slightest. He felt an odd mixture of anger and relief that the man had healed his servant.

Sighing as he began to pack up camp and get ready to go while waiting for Merlin to wake up, Arthur decided that even though it was unfair for that man to be so cryptic to both him and Merlin, he was more than grateful that he had saved Merlin's life.

He heard something shifting and he spun around only to have his coat hit him in the face. Merlin was sitting up, looking slightly troubled but otherwise unharmed, a quirky grin just beginning to form on his mouth. "What happened?"

Arthur told Merlin what had happened the best he could (of course, he left out the part about his worry and tears, there was no reason Merlin should have to know about that), ending with the strange message the sorcerer Taliesin had left. "And he kept calling you Emrys," Arthur recalled. "Do you have any idea what that means?"

Merlin hesitated for only the breadth of a second before laughing and replying, "Loony old man."

Arthur grinned and then became serious as he placed a hand on his servant's shoulder and said, "I'm glad you're alright."

Merlin nodded, his eyes a bit misty. "Thanks, Arthur. For everything."

Arthur hesitated, then questioned, "What did he put in your mind, Merlin?"

Merlin shook his head quickly. Too quickly. "Nothing."

Although Arthur was extremely curious, he did not press, but instead just smiled, glad to have his dopey servant alive and well. "Well, come on, Merlin, the way you're sitting there, you look like a startled stoat. Let's get moving, shall we?"

Merlin laughed. "At least I don't look like a bone idle toad!"

Arthur glared mockingly at his servant. "You're saying I look like a toad?"

Merlin grinned. "Yeah. And maybe someday you'll magically transform into a handsome prince… but since magic is outlawed, it'll probably never happen."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Idiot."

"Prat."

"Smart-mouth."

"Clot pole."

" _Mer_ lin…"

Merlin laughed and Arthur realized just how much he'd missed that sound when his friend had been dying. Lightly shoving the servant aside, he grinned, "Let's go home."

As they walked in companionable silence – something extremely rare whenever Merlin was involved but judging by what the sorcerer had told Arthur, Merlin had a lot on his mind now as well – Arthur reflected upon the happenings of the last few hours. If there was one thing Arthur had learned from this whole experience, it was that from now on, whether he wanted to or not, Merlin was going to wear armor.


End file.
